


Conspiracy of Ravens

by Andae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Background Relationships, Blood Magic, Circle of Magi, Fifth Blight, Gen, M/M, Snarky Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andae/pseuds/Andae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm has been stuck in the solitary at Kinloch Hold for months. Garrett fails at putting his life together. Solona wants to join the army. Also the Fifth Blight is coming and somebody should probably do something about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conspiracy of Ravens

**Author's Note:**

> I started this damn thing in March 2014. No kidding.

In the tower, it was easier to walk unnoticed after curfew if you left your shoes under your bed.

Outside the tower, it had meant that they stayed somewhere longer than overnight. Sometimes it had even meant they tried having an actual home with a roof and walls for a little while. Garrett sometimes slipped unnoticed just before the dawn. He felt fresh wet ground under his bare toes, felt the early spring Fereldan cold seep into his bones. There was no place for such comforts on the road--not on the Imperial Highway or backwater paths. On the road Father carried Carver and Garrett carried Bethany. On the road they had to tell stories in hoarse voices so the little ones wouldn’t realize they were fleeing for their lives.

Draft from stone floors and windows was freezing on Garrett's legs. He shivered, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. Thin cotton of his robes did nothing to keep the chill off his skin. It was like a deliberate plot, he thought, dress them all in ugly, impractical clothes that anyone would recognize from a distance. He was standing in the shadowed corner between the wall and one of the statues, silently counting down from hundred.

A templar passed next to him along the corridor. Garrett pressed himself closer to the wall, praying under his breath that he’d stay hidden. The guard didn’t notice. Dull stomping of his armored boots quieted finally in the distance. A drop of sweat trickled into Garrett’s eye. He wiped it with a flick of his hand. It was his tenth year in the tower. Ten years of sneaking around. Ten years of barefoot nighttime forays into the tower. His heart still stuck in his throat every time he saw one of these tin-cans walking nearby. Old habits die hard.

He tiptoed down the stairs to the first floor. Apprentice quarters were never silent, even more so than full mages’ quarters he lived in. Checking on Bethany was tempting. They kept their distance most of the time these days. It was hard enough for a family to stay so long in one Circle.

There was a bitter lump in Hawke’s throat. He swallowed with difficulty. Just a look, he told himself. It couldn’t hurt.

The girls’ dormitory was abuzz with hushed whispers. He opened a door, slipped inside, hands already raised to silent any outcries. He needn’t have bothered. Apprentices huddled together on a few beds near the far wall. Their faces  were pale and drawn with worry.

His sister wasn’t among them. It felt like the ground started crumbling under his bare feet.

A skinny elf girl looked up at him from under her ragged fringe. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he thought it’d be soon time for her own Harrowing--she was almost as old as Bethany.

“They took her this evening,” the girl said. She glanced down, at her clenched fingers. Her voice sounded flat. “Just like that. We came back and she was gone.”

Garrett closed his eyes, breathed in and out. For several seconds, he couldn’t pick out individual thoughts out of a maze of panic under his skull.

“Hawke?” the girl patted him on the shoulder. “You gonna pass out?” She didn't sound concerned, just curious.

“No,” he forced out between gritted teeth. “You’re a beacon of light and sympathy, Surana. Please don’t touch me.”

There were times when there was a buzz under Hawke’s skin, and other people’s hands felt like needles. He opened his eyes to see Neria shrugging and moving away.

If Bethy was out on her Harrowing, that meant the templars could come back anytime. Garrett beat his own test in almost-record time. Only Sol was faster than him. He told himself that Bethy would uphold the family tradition.

“I’ll come back in the morning,” he said, getting to his feet. His knees still felt shaky. He covered his fear with a smile. “Tell Bethy congratulations when she comes back.”

It was ‘when,’ not ‘if.’ Neria gave him a thoughtful look, but nodded and let it go.

Garrett had taken part in countless similar nighttime vigils back when he was an apprentice himself. These were quiet conversations over an empty bed. Endless uncertainty whether they’d be seeing its occupant again.

He listened at the door for several seconds, but it was quiet outside. The floor was still freezing, but his feet got so numb in the meantime he almost didn't notice.

He had stolen the key to the repository years ago. Most of the time there were guards posted, but Garrett had their routines memorized better than his Chant. Besides, with possible Harrowing going on right now they’d have even less reason to be there. After all, templars designed the cells to be impenetrable. They carved the runes into walls and floors that seeped the magic out and left nothing but bitter cold and quiet.

Most of the doors were open, cells empty. There was only two prisoners, and it had been so for the previous year or thereabouts. There was no sound from the first one, no face behind the bars of the small visor in the door. Anders must have been asleep or unconscious, not exactly an unusual occurrence.

Garrett’s destination was at the end of the corridor, the door that never opened.

“Father?” he whispered, pressing his face to the bars.

The cell was bare, with a pallet for a bed, windowless. It stank of damp earth, sweat of a rarely-washed body, mold and lyrium. Malcolm sat hunched with his back to the wall. His once-red enchanter robes hang worn and threadbare off his bony shoulders.

“Hello, Garrett,” Malcolm said.

His voice was hoarse. He stumbled to his feet, touched Garrett’s hands through the bars. He still wore a thin golden band of his wedding ring. Irving and Greagoir were often moved to meaningless small mercies.

“I told you not to come.” They’d been having the same conversation for months now.

“You must have raised me wrong, then,” Garrett forced his voice to come out light. “How are you?”

“As well as I could be under the circumstances.” Malcolm's smile was faint. “How long has it been, a year?”

“A year and a half.”

“So long, then.” Malcolm sighed. It was a ritual, too. He clasped Garrett's hands. His palms used to be thick and strong, rough from farm work and callused. Now they seemed more like a bundle of sticks wrapped in parchment. “Have you heard from Leandra?”

“They refused us a visit.” Garrett clenched his teeth, then went on. “It was my fault, Father. I kept talking back to one of the senior enchanters, and then…”

“… things escalated,”  Malcolm finished for him. “Again. They will keep finding excuses. They always do. Your existence is a crime, your mother’s stubborn loyalty a transgression in the eyes of the Maker. Don’t let yourself believe this lie.”

“I won’t, Father. I brought you some parchment and quills, so if you want to write, I can try to get it out.”

“Thank you.” Malcolm hid the small package in the pocket of his robes. “You shouldn’t stay long. The guards will come back any moment.”

“Tonight, they won’t.” Garrett could feel his father’s nails digging into his flesh, but refused to grimace.

Malcolm frowned, searching for something in Garrett’s face. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I went to the apprentices’ quarters,” the words came thick like molasses, “and Bethy wasn’t there.”

It hadn’t seemed real until he heard it spoken aloud. Malcolm fingers tightened to the point of pain.

“Oh, Maker.”

Any words after that seemed insufficient. Garrett held on to his father’s hands, shut his eyes tight, hoping to trap his tears behind his eyelids.

“She will be all right,” Malcolm said.

“I know. She’s brilliant, our Bethany.” The words came out breathy and faint. “Maker, we should’ve run and stayed away. I hoped–-”

“She’ll be fine,” Malcolm said. There was an odd brittle note in his voice Garrett tried not to listen to. His hands on Garrett’s were the ones grounding him, not the other way round. “Now go. You can come back tomorrow and tell me how it went.”

“Okay.” Garrett breathed in, out. In, out. “Okay. I will.”

* * *

Sneaking behind Garrett’s back had always seemed wrong. Nonetheless Solona had never been one for hesitating, or trying to fix her cousin’s messes for him. Maker knew he needed that on a daily basis. He’s like a lost puppy, she thought, one prone to escape attempts, sulking, and setting things on fire.

The tower was dark and quiet. In her ragged snaps of childish memory her family house in Kirkwall was silent like a mausoleum, too.

Maybe because of that Sol played at being such a good little mage. Rebellion just seemed like too much effort. Politics bored her to tears. The tower always had enough food that she never went hungry. The library’s shelves stretched long and inviting. She had company, and a place for experiments. It was much better than home.

Sol wasn’t religious, but she toed the line. Except when she made up her mind about something.

There was still light from under the door of the room the First Enchanter had given to the Grey Warden. Irving hadn’t let Sol go with the army when the summons had come first, even though she had requested it. She wasn’t an Enchanter yet, but she was a good enough mage. She had decided she’s not staying put. Let Irving try to stop her.

The Warden was up and turned towards the door the moment she was over the threshold.

“Hello,” he said.

He was handsome, Sol supposed. His arms and chest were well-defined under his thin undershirt. He didn’t look afraid of her, either, or judgmental, which was more important.

“Is there something you need?”

“I’m Solona Amell,” she said. “I know you’re here on behalf of the king. I would have a request of you.”

She watched him for a few moments, waited for his gaze to turn lecherous. It didn’t. There were too many visitors to the tower who thought mages to be desperate for a tumble in the dark with somebody who didn’t wear a robe.

Sol wasn’t interested. Out of curiosity, she’d tried once, with an Antivan envoy. Even though press of skin against skin had been nice, all in all sex turned out to be boring and messy.

“I know you’re looking for recruits for the king’s army,” she said.

“Do you?” The Warden smiled a little. “Rumors travel fast, I see.”

“Oh, please,” she snorted, but couldn’t help a smile in answer. Maker help her, she liked this man. “The Knight-Commander sneezes in his office and five minutes later apprentices gossip about a flu outbreak.”

The Warden walked around the desk, sat down, leaned back, laced his fingers together. Watched her from under his dark brows without a word.

“It was easy to figure out,” she continued. She wouldn't let him intimidiate her. “There were only seven volunteers. Taking into account the number of troops, it’s not enough in Ostagar. If not the king, they Teyrn Loghain would make this request.”

The Warden smiled again, swift and sharp. “You’re not wrong, Mage Amell. First Enchanter asked me to keep it quiet. He and the Knight-Commander have their—differences on the subject.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, anxious. She should’ve predicted Greagoir’s bullheadedness. “Anyway, I was an apprentice of Senior Enchanter Wynne’s—that is, I’m a healer, and know a thing or two about curses. I don’t teach any apprentices, and I don’t belong to a fraternity. If you ask Irving, he might consider letting me go with you.”

“Fair enough.”

Sol let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“There’s also another mage,” she said, slower. “One Garrett Hawke. He’s—well, he’s good at setting things on fire.” She laughed a little before she could stop herself. “He was in solitary when the others went south, and he’d never request it himself, stubborn bastard. I ask of you,” she looked the Warden straight in the eye, kept her voice level, “please ask Irving to let him go, too.”

The Warden hummed. “I'm familiar with this name.” There was a pile of papers on the desk, and he pushed them towards her, motioning that she could read them. She skimmed over the first couple and swore, startled.

“You’re recruiting. I should have known. Maker, Irving would recommend Garrett to you? Sweet Andraste, he must want to get him out of the Tower pretty bad...”

“Your name is on the list, too, Mage Amell,” the Warden said, and she thought that the gentleness in his voice was a feint. She shuffled  the papers to give herself more time.

“Neria's a good fit,” she said finally. “Garrett and I, well, I'm no warrior, and he's terrible at taking orders. He'll run off the first chance he has. Besides, he'd never leave for good if it meant leaving Malcolm and Bethy behind.”

The Warden took the papers back, found the sheet with Surana's name on top. “I understand that Neria Surana is still an apprentice.”

“Not for long. Besides, she's Irving favorite. The best apprentice we have right now.”

“I'll take this into consideration.” The Warden stood up, and she hurried to get to her feet, too. “Your request, too.”

“Thank you,” she said, scrambling for gratitude. It came out hollow. There was  a cold feeling in her stomach. She thought the Warden would enlist her or Garrett without a moment's hesitation if he thought they would be useful. Maker, what a disaster.

“Good night, Warden,” she said after a moment of hesitation.

“Good night, Mage.”

The Warden closed the door after her. It didn’t make a sound. Small mercies, she thought, and started making her way down the corridor on tiptoes.

* * *

When Garrett finally came back, it must have been long after midnight. As usual Sol was still awake, curled on his bed with a thick leather-bound book. Her magical light was faint enough that nobody would see her from the corridor.

“Out again?”

“Up again? You’ll ruin your eyesight.”

She snorted, unapologetic. Third occupant of their room was snoring loud enough to wake the dead from behind the partition.

“What’s-his-name is at it again,” she said, putting the book away.

She got up, stretched until her joints popped. They were almost of a height, and had similar black hair curling on ends. She was thick-limbed, with wide hips and shoulders, while Garrett had always been lanky. When she didn’t pay enough attention, she still spoke with a Marcher accent, softened by the years.

“I swear he’s like a punishment from the Maker above. You could use this sound as a psychological weapon.”

Garrett sat down, put his feet under the blanket. Sol found a chair, sat on it backwards, propped her chin on the backrest.

“So?”

“So what?”

“How is he?”

Garrett looked away. Even under the best of circumstances Sol had all the subtlety of a fireball to the face. To play for time, he picked up her book.

“School of Spirit? Cousin, you’re the most boring person in this tower.”

“Wait until you see one of my Walking Bombs,” she said. “I’ve decided when you were gone.”

“Have you, now.”

“I’m going with the army to Ostagar. I’m rotting here, Hawke. I could at least vent my deep-seated psychological issues at some poor defenseless darkspawn. Also, you know, save the world.”

Her eyes were dark and sharp, not at all sleepy despite the hour. Garrett could feel his exhaustion down to his bones.

“You’ve never aimed low,” he whispered.

“Come with me. I bet Irving will pack your bags himself just to get you out of the tower and out of his hair.”

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Oh, come on. The tower will still be here when you come back. Bethany will be fine.”

“I mean…” He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “She’s off on her Harrowing right now. That’s what the apprentices say. She wasn’t in the dormitory.”

“Garrett.” Sol touched his hand. She didn’t use his given name often. “You didn’t get yourself killed during your own Harrowing, and Bethy’s smarter than you. She’ll be fine. She doesn’t need you watching over her shoulder.”

Sol’s matter-of-fact voice was grounding. When he looked up, she was watching him. Her dark eyes were hawk-sharp.

“It feels wrong to leave when they’re stuck here. Besides, Father was acting… weird tonight.” His tongue felt numb.

“Your father has been in solitary for over a year and a half--and his only daughter might be facing a demon as we speak. Cut him some slack, will you?”

“I told him about the Warden, and he sort of freaked out.” Garrett frowned. “I suppose it's nothing. Just nerves. I’ll go and talk to Bethany tomorrow. Do you think I can get my hands on some cookies before morning?”

Sol rolled her eyes, then her expression softened.

“You have something good here, you know. Better than most of us. But please, think about what I’ve said--about the army. I must be a horrible person for thinking like this, but as I see it, the Blight is a chance for us. People will see us roast some ‘spawn, save some lives…”

“So we’ll be more like soldiers than like monsters,” Garrett finished for her. “I see. Maybe you’re right. But I can’t think about it now. Give me some time, Sol.”

“I’m not going to sit here anymore when the world is happening outside,” Sol said, standing up. “I’m going to bed. You’d better think things through in that thick head of yours, Hawke. Also, get some sleep. You won’t help Bethy if you worry yourself into an ulcer.”

Garrett snorted. Even though Sol’s voice was all her usual briskness and efficiency, it had a high nervous note underneath.

“Sol, you’re family, too. You don’t need to act like an ass.”

“Somebody has to.”

She bit her lip, but didn’t say anything more. She squeezed Garrett’s hand instead, quick and hard enough to hurt.

“Good night, o brave soldier Amell. I’ll be right behind you.”

“You’d better be.”


End file.
